”Logan, stop!”

Blink and twitch,

“Logan, you have to stop!”

Flinch, palms covering ears.

“Logan!”

Can still hear. Struck claws through your eardrums and covered your ears but you can still hear, it’s never enough, no matter what you do it’s never enough and you can fucking hear every fucking peep and whisper, plain as a day, and it’s driving you nuts and there’s no way out of this because you’re stuck in this hellhole and every fucking one of them expects you to behave and keep things running for them because that’s what you do and because you’re so fucking good at making things work.

“Logan, please…”

No.

“Logan, you have to stop hurting yourself.”

You won’t, you can’t and you shouldn’t listen to her.

“Logan, just look at me.”

Close your eyes cover your ears and crawl away from her because she’ll make you see and hear and feel and you don’t want that, don’t need that. You can’t tell her to get lost because you’d have to talk to her to do that. You haven’t thrown her out because you’d have to touch her to do that. Just curl over yourself and try to make her see that she should leave, leave and let you be because you can’t take it anymore and this is the only time of the day you can be by yourself and you need it, need the solitude and peace even if it’s just few moments because otherwise you’ll go insane.

“Logan, I need to speak with you. Would you stop and listen?”

Pacing. Pacing’s good. One, two, three and turn. One, two, three, turn.

“Logan!”

Hands off! Get your hands off! Have to keep counting!

“I need to speak with you! It’s important!”

Hands off or you’ll lop them off. She doesn’t understand, won’t stop or go away and soon you have to do something to make her go away because her whining is really grating your nerves and it would feel entirely too good to skewer her, feel her heart thrum against the metal, those sweet vibrations creeping up your arms and flooding your system. You can taste the blood at the back of your throat, still yours from when you shredded your ears, but soon to be hers if she doesn’t understand and go away and leave you alone.

“What’s going on in here?”

Kid.

“Go to sleep, Rogue. It’s none of your concern.”

Yeah. How could it be her concern? She’s not a mutie anymore.

“Logan? Are you all right? Where did all that blood come from?”

Walking closer. Hand on your arm, tugging gently your sleeve. She wants to see. Let go. Let go and let her see. She’ll make it all right. She’ll make the bitch go away. She’ll leave you alone. Just let go and let her see. That’s it, just lower your hands. Relax; she’ll make it all right.

“Oh…”

Fingers brushing dried flakes of blood from your earlobes.

“Rogue, go back to bed. I need to discuss with Logan.”

Clamp your palms over your ears, now. Before that persistent nagging will make you do something you’ll regret.

“Stop bitching, Storm. Can’t you see he’s in no condition to talk?”

One day you’re going to fuck the living daylights out of her. Show her with every move and touch, the only way you can, how much she means to you. How much you appreciate her, the way she always seems to be there when you need something. One day. Right now you settle for hiding behind her back, wrapping your hands around her slender waist and burying your face to the cascade of her shiny brown and white mane. Breath in her scent because it’s the only thing preventing you from tilting over, taking that final leap through the window behind your back. From this height it could actually work. You don’t really want that, but there are not so many options left when Storm’s got you cornered like this.

“You don’t even belong in here anymore. You have no part in this whatsoever. Go to sleep, Rogue.”

Let her take the blow. You can feel her flinch, but she’s stronger than that. She’s stronger than the bitching Goddess at the doorway.

“I belong to where my friends are. Where my family is. And you don’t have a say over that matter, Storm.”

Venom. Venom in her voice. Cold ice flowing in her veins.

“Family? Friends? Rogue, you gave that all up when you took the cure.”

Shut up, shut up, bitch. That’s a new low, even from you. She had a choice and she took it. Took the chance to be normal, but then again… You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t understand what it is to be wrapped up like a mummy 24-7, hiding in your room in fear of hurting people, living the word lethal tattooed to your forehead and see everybody around you cringe and scatter to every direction if you as much as sneeze too loudly. You have to say something. Open your mouth. You can do it. You. Can. Do. It.

“Cut the crap, Storm. Leave her out of this.”

Claws out. You must be scaring the woman cradled against you. Cage of sharp blades and straining tendons, but woman standing at the doorstep has gone too far.

“I came to talk with you, not to fight with Rogue.”

She’s telling the truth, and you know it. Just like you know that she told what she’s really thinking about Rogue earlier.

“Just leave him alone! He’ll talk with you in the morning!”

Kid. Struggling not to cry. Struggling not to show weakness. She’s doing good. Hands on your wrists, rather pulling your fists closer to her than pushing them away. Fight and you’ll hurt her. Let her guide you. Let her guide your body just like you let her guide your mind. Fingers rubbing the backs of your hands just above the claws, grating the frayed edges of the wounds against the blades. Endorphins kicking in to drown the pain. Shitload of hormones crashing through your veins and suddenly you feel like fucking her to the floor right now, right here, to show Storm how wrong she is about Rogue not having family or friends, because she has you, and you’ll be her friend, you’ll be her family, you’ll be her world even if everything and anybody else abandons her. You move to grab her even closer to you and rub her backside with your front side and friction nearly makes you moan out loud. Instead voicing your feelings you bury your face against her neck and lick the salt from her skin, tasting her anger and rage towards the Goddess in front of you.

“Fine. I expect you in my office, first thing in the morning.”

One down, one more to go. Shivering in your embrace. Not out of fear, that much you can tell from the ripe damp scent of her arousal.

“Logan? Are you alright?”

Almost all right. Almost there. Just stop talking.

“Logan?”

“Shut up.”

Silence. Blessed silence. She just stands there, her back pressed against you. Still caged between your body and claws. There’s no fear, but there’s hesitation. She doesn’t know what to do. What to think. You haven’t touched her after she got the cure. You let your claws slide back in partially and uncurl your fingers from tight fists, screech of metal against metal making her flinch a bit. Like nails on a chalkboard when bones of your palm chafe against your claws. Can’t make them go back in. Not yet. But you want to feel her. Feel her skin under the pads of your fingers and you skim the narrow exposed gap at her waist lightly. You won’t fuck her now. Probably never. But you have to make her see, have to make her understand how much she means to you, and how wrong Storm is in her assessment of her. So you let your hands wander, reveal even larger amount of her skin, slice off the top of her pajamas and cup her breasts with your clawed hands, letting the sharp blades graze over already pebbling nipples while your lips and tongue seek her jugular and her pulse quickens.

She stays silent, but arches against you. Her hands leave your wrists and reach up to grasp your hair, to pull you even closer. She’s hungry for this. Hungry for you. Hungry for touch. And you know you won’t fuck her tonight because you’d take her too far, fast and hard, you’d maim her in your yearn for power.

You manage to pull the claws back in, inch by noisy inch, until they can’t hurt her anymore, but then they’re stuck inside, halfway there, and your wrists won’t turn. Your palms are straining, tendons stretching and it’s getting uncomfortable.

She doesn’t talk, but starts walking backwards, forcing you to move until you can feel the backs of your knees touching something soft. The chair by the window. Your knees obey her and buckle under you. She turns and leans closer, hovering over you, face flushed, eyes twinkling and her fragrance almost makes you discard your earlier decision of not taking her now. Veil of brown and white locks fall over your face and cocoon you when she kisses you. Just a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth from dry, slightly chapped lips of hers.

She leaves the room, and there’s only silence. Finally you’re able to lean back and close your eyes because she locked the door behind her, locked it and took the key with her so that nobody can get in.

You’d love to go to her, but you’re afraid to break the silence. Her scent still lingers. You can taste her on your lips. Salty sweetness of her arousal overpowering the bitterness of rage and anger. Your fingers still warm from when you touched her. Small drop of blood between your middle and ring finger when you nicked her accidentally. It’s burning your skin. Burning because she was so carried away that she didn’t even notice when your claw parted her skin and you’d like to go to her to apologize and lick clean the small wound on her left breast, but silence of your room is too alluring and you just sit on the chair she guided you to, your head resting back and eyes closed. Besides, the door is locked. To get out you’d have to fuck up the lock, and then there would be nothing between you and the disturbing individuals.

Last screech and claws slide to their sheaths, relieving the pressure from muscles and vessels. Your fingers tingle and you feel like scratching your palms, but it’ll go away if you ignore it. It’ll soon go away. Just like the taste of your own blood, it’ll fade away soon, as soon as your healing knits up last shredded vessels from your ears that are still slowly trickling the red syrup to the back of your throat.

“Marie…”

Voice raspy, vocal chords rusty from being so rarely used. Marie. Not the kid. Not the Rogue. Marie. Even when storm so adamantly keeps referring her as the traitor, as something that doesn’t belong, she still uses her code name. Somehow it feels like it nullifies everything else she says. Makes void her claim that Marie doesn’t belong in here anymore. No normal person uses codename.

“Marie…”

Voice more clear now. She’s Marie to you. Not the kid. Not the Rogue. Just Marie. Your shield. Your home. Your world. Everything. Just few doors down the hall, guarding your sleep, and the key to your room, the key to your life with her life. You can see it. You can envy it. Small slip of steel nestled between her pert breasts under her nightgown. A place where nobody in their right mind would even dream to touch, not even now. They know. All of them. It was a death sentence before, and it is a death sentence even now to lay your hands on her.

“Marie…”

And she’s not yours. Not yours to protect. Not yours to fuck. Not yours to go to. She lives just few doors down the hall with Bobby Drake. You’d take her. You’d fuck her. You’d keep her, but you can’t because she’s not yours to have and hold. Another man’s got her heart and soul. You may have a piece of her, she’s given you a splinter from her core and made it clear that it’s something that belongs just for you, given out of free will, and she’s got you, all of you, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter because Drake is there to hold her, making love to her, keeping her safe and cherished. But for how long?

“Shit.”

You fucked it up. She didn’t notice the small cut just above her nipple. But Drake will wonder about her shredded pajamas. Drake will notice the cut when she picks a new top and pulls it on. Drake will notice the dark red rose of blood blossoming through the soft cotton, and he’ll ask her what is it all about. He’ll ask her, and she’ll tell him, because she’s not a liar. And now you find yourself wishing, hoping against hope that Drake isn’t every bit of a man he should be to be worthy of her, that he’ll just let it go as what it was to her, small sliver of comfort and reassurance offered to a friend when everything else was crumbling down like a house built on clay.

“Fuck.”

And you just know what will happen. You can already smell the scent of her tears. Can hear the soft whisper of bare feet hitting the thick carpet on the corridor, approaching your door. Key clinking against the dog tag she still carries around her neck.

“Fuck…”

Yes. You fucked it up. And there’s nothing you can do to make it right. Nothing you can say to erase what happened earlier. What is done is done, and she’s taken the fall for you. Does it make you a bastard when you can’t keep away the smile that’s spreading on your face when the lock is rattling and the doorknob starts to turn? Wipe off the grin before the door opens. Wipe it off, you pathetic bastard, you just ruined her whole fucking life with your stupid stunt, and she’s probably coming just to tell you that it’s over, that she’s going to pack her bags and move on, because she truly doesn’t have a place in here anymore. And you don’t have a say over that matter. You don’t. You don’t fucking have a say over nothing in her life; try to get it through your thick skull.

“Logan?”

Sneaking in. Keep your poker. Eyes closed. Head thrown backwards, hands splayed against the armrests. Sleeping. Yes. Sleeping.

“Logan? I just came… I wasn’t really thinking earlier. I didn’t mean to lock you up in here, I was just… I’ll leave the key to your desk. Good night.”

Creeping closer. Tiptoeing over the hard wooden floor. Standing so close you can feel the heat radiating from her, you bathe in it; enjoy the relaxing aura she carries within her. She’s leaning closer. Closer. Lips brushing your forehead. Your closed eyelids. Tip of your nose. Tickles, but you’re sleeping.

“I’ll be in my room if you need anything. I told Bobby not to ice you. Sleep well. Lock the door after me, okay? I don’t want Storm creeping up on you when she’s like that. I don’t trust her.”

Tiptoeing out. You can hear Bobby whispering something to her. Just outside of your door. Her answering. Bobby peeking in. Can see him through lowered lashes. There’s anger in his gaze, but also understanding. He’s not judging. Not judging even when his girlfriend returned with shredded pajama, clearly ravaged earlier.

“We’ll both be here if you need anything.”

You nod upon hearing his whisper. Then they’re both gone and you scramble hastily to the door that Drake left partially open and slam it shut, throw on the lock and the deadbolt you installed just few months ago because you were getting tired of the people sneaking in and trying to rescue you from your nightmares.

To your utter surprise you become friends with both of them. With Marie you already were a friend, even hoping to be something more, but it’s the Drake that takes you by surprise. He’s actually a good man. Still child, a boy in so many ways, but rapidly turning to strong, confident man capable of tackling with the horrid mess of living in a world filled of hatred and violence. Capable of taking care of Marie and her every need, and even when you know there’s more in him than he’s ready to reveal to anybody you let it slide because he’s in love with her, and if he occasionally keeps staring little too long after good looking men, or even you, you let it slide because he loves Marie and Marie loves him, and you and Drake both know that if he steps out of line you’ll make him pay for it dearly.

First year goes by fast. Soon there’s talk about wedding. Mansion’s whirring with rumors for months beforehand, and you’re grateful for it because they seem to forget you, even Storm concentrates to humungous task of getting the government to revoke the Registration act and finally you get some room to breathe and just be yourself.

At one point you realize you spend even more time with Drake than Marie. It doesn’t matter. Drake’s a decent drinking buddy, maybe weak from the head when raw booze steps in to picture, but compared to you anybody’s weak. And if Drake keeps touching you, slapping your back and his hand lingering on your arm little longer than it’s absolutely necessary, you let it slide because he’s Marie’s just like you are, and you both know you wouldn’t cross that line no matter what.

“Just remember one thing, Ice Prick. I’ll chop it off and let you bleed to death if you hurt her.”

You both laugh, drunken giggles and chuckles, then Drake looks at you, completely serious and deathly sober regardless of the vast amount of booze he has consumed. Really looks at you, straight in the eyes, and grabs your collar, yanking you face to face with him, and for a moment you’re afraid he’s going to try and kiss you. His icy breath tickles your lips when he leans closer.

“Just remember one thing, Beast Boy. Keep your paws off from my girl, or I’ll freeze it and we get to see if it’ll ever grow back.”

That night you don’t laugh anymore. Not like you used to laugh, but Drake has gotten more points under his belt. You know he’s good for his threat. He’d do it, no matter if it would work, but he’d do it anyway, then maim you for good, and you make a decision then and there, his face still hovering close to yours. It’s him and Marie before you. Him before you. Anything and anybody will have to get through you first to get to him, that’s how it’s been with Marie, that’s how it’ll be with Drake, that’s how it’ll be with both of them.

Decision is easy to keep during following months out in the field where the battle rages and the blood is shed. You take the blows directed at them, suffer wounds you know Drake wouldn’t survive and bleed for them because they’re good for each other, and them being there still keeps you sane. And just because she’s Marie, you’re hers and anything that belongs to her is sacred and Bobby belongs to her as well.

Then comes the wedding day. You’re not the Best Man. Drake’s brother gets the honor. Lame attempt to try to patch up frayed relations with his family. You don’t mind, but Drake pulls you aside just little before the ceremony, pulls you to the men’s room and you stand next to him at the urinal when he tells you that he’d much rather taken you standing beside him and Marie than his brother. And you feel a little like crying, because now your nose confirms what you have been suspecting for weeks already. Stench of sickness wafting from the urinal. You’re not trained in medicine, but you know something, little tidbits, and you’re nose is telling you that the man standing next to you won’t live much longer anymore. And it’s not fair. And there’s nothing you can do about it. And it’ll tear Marie apart. It’ll tear you apart.

“Drake…”

You put your hand on his shoulder, and you know, you just know that Drake already knows, and there’s no reason to say it out loud.

“Just take care of her after… After I’m gone. Okay?”

And you don’t see the ceremony. You hide in the bathroom, slide out through the tiny window placed to the furthest stall and get utterly wasted at the nearest bar, scaring the bartender and few customers who happen to know you by bursting to hysterics while downing your sixth whiskey.

Cancer. It’s eating Drake from the inside. From the outside he’s still the same, strong, handsome young man, perfect husband, good friend and able fighter in an endless war that has been brewing under surface from the moment the first mutant was born, but you’re able to smell the stench of death wafting around him, ugly green and brown cloud sticking on to him like a leech. And you strike a deal with him.

It’s eating you, just like the disease is eating Drake, but you both know it’s for the best. Marie doesn’t know, she doesn’t know that her husband is dying, and you and Drake prefer it that way. She deserves all the happiness she can get, and being married to dying, gay man isn’t the thing to provoke happy thoughts. So you two keep up the pretence, laugh and joke with her, and you give Drake pointers of how and what to do with her in bed, because the man is after all as inexperienced and clueless as Marie, and she deserves only the best. And all the time the deal hovers upon your shoulders like a led weight, pushing you down, challenging the metal coating your bones until you’re convinced that you’re developing a serious case of bowlegs.

You keep him drugged, provide substances to keep the pain at bay, and if Marie notices how sometimes the dosage has been too big and Drake’s wondering around with glazed eyes she doesn’t say anything. And you know he’ll ask you to honor the deal soon. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But soon.

When it happens, it happens so quickly that you don’t have the time to argue. A bullet. Too fast. Too fast even for you. You know even when you’re charging towards Drake who’s still standing that you’re late, the deal is on, sealed, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. You collide with him, and the bullet aimed at Drake grazes your arm before it sinks to Drake’s chest.

Not lethal. It’s not lethal. There’s bloody froth rising to Drake’s lips when he struggles to breathe with punctured lung. You put your palm over the wound to prevent the lung from collapsing. Drake curses and spats blood, grabs your hand.

“It’s time… Let go.”

He uses his last reserves and freezes your hand, and instinctively you pull off from him. Drake smiles through the blood and suddenly lunges towards you, grabbing the front of your uniform and takes your lips, seals the deal with his blood and kiss.

“Take care of her… You big bastard… Or I’ll come and haunt you…”

And it’s only you and Marie. You wait. You wait even when the night is cold and you’re so lonely that you can barely breathe and you can hear her crying at the end of the corridor, you wait because that was part of the deal. You wait until she’s ready to let go. You wait until she comes looking for you.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not the next week or week after that.

It’s a long wait. You’re living like a monk now, because that was also part of the deal. Because that was the part you decided to include. No booze. No women. No picking up fights. No real life until she returns from the dead. There are mornings you wake up so hard and stiff that it hurts. There are moments when you fantasize of sinking your claws through random people. There are moments you’re so fucking thirsty and parched that even beer commercials make you weep. There are moments when you feel like running. Leaving everything behind and starting from the scratch.

You’re missing her like you would miss one of your limbs. She’s there every day, but you can’t go to her. And you miss Drake. Cocky Ice Prick who kept freezing your fingers as a pun, and as a reminder of what would happen to the more sensitive part of you if you strayed. The only man who could get away with his life for harassing you. The only man you ever felt fucking with. Yeah. You probably would have done that if it weren’t for Marie.

Or not. If it weren’t for Marie, you wouldn’t even have ended up in here in the first place. You’d been drinking, fighting and fucking your ass off, traveling between small cities, living in that dingy trailer of yours and only waiting for the moment they finally have a lock on you. You wouldn’t even have met Drake if it weren’t for Marie. But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? When you find yourself imagining writhing, sweaty body against yours, pliant muscles under your fingers and tight caresses stroking your cock and you realize it’s not Marie you’re fantasizing about, but Drake, and taste of his blood and saliva floods your mouth like it was just yesterday when he kissed you. And you realize you fell for him as good and hard as you did fell in love with Marie.

You keep waiting. Not so patiently, but you don’t have a choice. You won’t give yourself any other options, because what she had with Drake must die first. What you had with Drake must die first, just like Drake died on your arms that day.

Your door is not locked anymore, but she won’t come to you. Not tonight.